


it's destiny

by satsukimomoi



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Declarations Of Love, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Religious Discussion, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satsukimomoi/pseuds/satsukimomoi
Summary: After years of being unable to share the sky, there comes a moment when the Moon allows the Earth to be plunged in darkness so that it may finally experience the Sun's radiance alone. This is eclipse.(post a+ support, contains mentions of canon-typical violence, religion, war, etc. chapter 2 is rated M for sexual content, albeit very soft)*links to save this and my other works are in the third chapter, as i will no longer be publishing on ao3*
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 37
Kudos: 251





	1. part of the moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> FRIENDS!!! FELLOW ASSOCIATES!!! i finally did the thing! nobody tells u about how much of a nightmare it is writing these goobers bc they are too stupidly layered and complex for my pea brain to handle but I DID IT!! i hope you all enjoy this and find that it does the lads justice, and if any sections are harmful or offensive, please let me know and i will make necessary changes asap! thank u so so much for reading ily all  
> (yes the title/summary is a loona reference i have an agenda to fulfill)

Too much work is still to be done. Merchants bustle, guards patrol, and life goes on, yet the monastery is still a shell. A tatter pulled from the teeth of the Immaculate One— still healing, just like the people inside it. Chisels clink, hammers clank, and the rubble still crunches beneath Ferdinand’s feet, an aching reminder of what it costs to change the world— a reminder that in order to rebuild, something must first be torn down. In that way, perhaps he is not so different from the pockets of ash and shattered stone that litter the halls. War has weathered the rosy lens through which he has viewed the world for so long, exposing the gray storms and crimson blood for what they are and leaving Ferdinand to sculpt a new vision, stone by stone. 

And he will do it, happily. He has not the luxury of yearning for the past’s blissful ignorance, not anymore. Even so, its ghosts still lurk along each crumbling parapet and shattered window, and he’s grateful for the perpetual noise of footsteps, conversation, and wagon wheels to drown them out. He has always had an easier time protecting the living than lamenting the dead. So, he buries himself in his work— meticulously surveying the restoration, organizing intelligence reports, calculating supply budgets, and trying to find a slice of cake or two for Lysithea amidst wartime scarcity.

It doesn’t occur to him that work can be _suffocating_ , at least not until Edelgard had pointedly ordered that he take an early leave from the intelligence meeting to rest. He refused of course, insisting that she was in need of his counsel, though in perhaps a far too animated manner.

 _It is my duty to guide you on a righteous path until my last breath! I assure you that I shall rest after I have been of proper assistance!_

He was touched by her genuine concern, nonetheless. Responsibilities pile themselves on her tiny shoulders, and still she finds time to remind him how valued he is— finds time to listen to him. Now, he needs only a moment to listen to _himself_ , wrack through the tangled grapevine of thoughts twisting within him, and rebuild.

The cathedral is considerably quieter at such a late hour, and a guard, cook, and footsoldier offer the day’s final prayers before clearing the pews and trickling out towards the bridge. Ferdinand is alone, save for the cat sleeping by the gate, the owl breaking the night’s silence with haunting _hoot hoots_ —

—and Hubert.

Hubert, bathed in the moonlight that pours through the shattered, open ceiling— and in an eerie glow that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Hubert, whose preferred place of repose would undoubtedly be anywhere _except_ this one. Yet somehow, the image of him, sharp and somber, standing amidst holy architecture and elegant stained glass and warm candelabras is not nearly as jarring as Ferdinand would have expected. In a place meant for comfort and reflection, he seems to fit right in, like some ethereal illusion.

Before Ferdinand can think to speak or even make himself _known_ , Hubert quietly says, “Her Majesty may have allowed you to attend the intelligence meeting in its entirety, but I believe it was still agreed that you were to _rest_ afterwards.”

Despite his back being turned, Ferdinand can hear the slight curve of a smile in his voice, one of the many quiet forms of sentimentality that have bloomed in their years of shared company. Even their incessant banter is more a source of endearing nostalgia than blatant hostility, as if they argue merely to remind themselves of what they once were— and how far they’ve come. Still, some things may never change. Hubert remains acutely aware of even the slightest breeze, lest it carry an assassin waiting to slip a blade between his ribs. When he turns on his heel, some kind of relief appears to soften the harsh lines of his face, and it makes Ferdinand ache through his bright smile.

“Her concern for my well-being gives me great happiness, as does yours, my friend. But, have no fear! I have every intention of retiring for the night once sleep no longer evades me.”

“Just as well. Though, if my presence disrupts your prayer, I will take my leave.”

Before Hubert can exit his moonlit stage, Ferdinand takes a rushed step into it. “No,” he blurts, “that is not it at all,” and he thinks to make some decidedly bombastic declaration, to make his appreciation known in the most eruptive way possible.. 

_Your presence is a boon in itself! As comforting as the sky’s brightest stars!_

—or something similar. But he is tired, and Hubert looks so unnervingly serene that Ferdinand chooses to spare him the discomfort of squirming under excessive sweetness. Instead, he merely says, “In truth, I did not come here to pray. Just to _think_ , I suppose.”

Hubert’s sharp, pale eyes scan Ferdinand for some kind of clue— a manual on how Ferdinand’s mind, so different from his own, works. Mutual vexation has long since given way for insatiable curiosity, as if every verbal tug-of-war is just an excuse to peek into the other’s skull and marvel at the machinations that take place there. Ferdinand can’t remember which day or under which moon his frustration became _fascination_ , or if they had simply always coexisted. But, he anticipates Hubert’s words the way he anticipates… many things regarding Hubert as of late— be it a surprise invitation for a coffee break (“coffee” and “tea” being used interchangeably) or a letter recounting the monthly expenses and battalion assignments, with tender praise in between. Even the briefest of passing conversations carry the possibility of catching one more glimpse behind those eyes and seeing the world in a way Ferdinand may have never imagined, and they excite him. Hubert excites him.

“What do you think about?” Hubert finally asks.

Ferdinand tears his eyes away for a moment, shifting his focus to the backdrop of debris and cinders beyond Hubert’s softly lit frame. “Thoughts seem to come and go too quickly for me to effectively _identify_ them as of late, though I suppose the monastery itself has been on my mind,” he confesses. “The state of it.”

“Reasonable. It’s difficult to comprehend the rage of creatures so far removed from us, but reducing such a place to a ruin serves as quite the reminder of why we cling to our humanity. The absence of so-called _higher beings_ leaves much room for reflection.”

Offering comfort has never been one of Hubert’s defining skills, yet there’s a certain empathy that writes itself between his words— one that may only be apparent due to how well Ferdinand has come to know him. Ferdinand _envies_ him and his ability to know himself so well, to be so implacable in his truths and the role that he has chosen to play. He has surely never questioned his place in this world, nor the image he has curated of it.

“Do you enjoy their absence?” Ferdinand asks.

“If I had to choose between enjoyment and grief, then yes, you could say I enjoy it. I have never sought the goddess’s favor, nor have I known her mercy. I see no identifiable _benefits_ attached to her presence.”

Ferdinand realizes that he doesn’t know what the goddess’s mercy even _looks_ like. He wonders if he _did_ at one time and merely forgot after spending so many days caked with the blood of strangers, ankle-deep in mud and staring into a thousand pairs of eyes whose light had been robbed by war. He wonders if her mercy can even exist in a world that requires such sacrifice to change. “I confess, there was a time when I thought I had already _earned_ her favor. I assumed that if something was _good_ , it was her will, so I aimed to do good.”

Hubert crosses his arms and listens in hushed silence, undeterred by the fact that Ferdinand is now looking up and throwing all of his words at the night sky, increasing his volume and urgency with each syllable to see how close they can get to reaching it.

“But,” Ferdinand continues, “how can I know her will if I cannot _hear_ her or _see_ her or ask for her opinions, or even about her likes and dislikes? How can I claim to understand someone that I do not know?”

“You sound as though you would like to have small talk with her over tea, Ferdinand.”

The prime minister’s laugh is sparkling and metallic, with a clear fullness that, without realizing, he has only ever shown to his dearest friend. The familiarity of it all amuses him— sitting leisurely in the alcove with his favorite imported blend that has gone cold because he is too engrossed in the conversation. Yet, when he imagines such a scene, he can only picture one mysterious, melancholy face on the opposite side of the table. “I do not see what is so wrong in that! Such occasions have given me the joy of understanding _you_ better, have they not?”

Hubert blinks curiously. “Spending such extensive time with me often results in boredom, at the very least. I can scarcely imagine looking on it with such sentimentality.”

“Come now, Hubert, I will not allow such self-deprecation!” Ferdinand argues with his ticklishly endearing brand of vigor, flipping a wave of silky tangerine curls over his shoulder. He cannot bear to stifle his vivacity anymore, or his affection. He has already laid so much before Hubert, so why stop? “Experiencing that mind of yours has become one of life’s sweetest pleasures!” 

“Ferdinand, don’t be so dramatic—”

“I ask that you allow me this one moment!” he exclaims before mellowing back into the solemnity that had weighed on him when he entered the cathedral. “I cannot serve the goddess’s will if I do not know it. At one time, that may have terrified me, and perhaps it still _does_ in a way. But I am less afraid now, because I am beginning to know _you_ . _Your_ will is one that I can understand.”

For a moment, Hubert does not appear to be breathing until he exhales a tangible tension from his shoulders and closes his eyes, as if he is unable to bear the weight of Ferdinand’s examining gaze. “The parts of myself that I show you are shown out of trust and respect. However, understanding my _will_ need not take so much effort, as it is Lady _Edelgard’s_ will.”

“I am not so sure about that.”

Hubert’s eyes snap open, piercing and feline. “I’m curious as to what that implies.”

“Oh, don’t fret,” Ferdinand soothes, fully accustomed to the barbs of the Imperial spymaster’s disposition by now. “Since knowing you and Edelgard, I have not seen a level of devotion so pure and inspiring. Maybe I never will. It is just that— Edelgard’s will is that of a _leader_ . She fights for _all_ of Fodlan, and she must remain unbound by her emotions. You, however…” he grips his words tightly, so as not to lose them and his breath to the haunting shade of chartreuse that burns into his own eyes and makes him melt. “You feel _deeply_ — and while I do not doubt that you serve a greater good, as we _all_ do, your will is that of a _friend_. You fight to protect what you love.”

Ferdinand is unflinching in his boldness, as he has always been. How else can he draw Hubert out of his shadows, see the planes of his face soaked in a light that is meant for him alone? Maybe spending so long hiding in darkness has made him think himself a _part_ of it. He chose to sacrifice his very _form_ to keep Edelgard’s unmarred, and to save his friends at least _some_ of the pain that exists on this path that they have followed her on. Ferdinand cannot fathom the weight of that burden, but he cannot accept such a loss of identity either. He has come to treasure Hubert’s very existence too much, and Edelgard has fought too hard to protect humanity for Hubert to just throw his away. Ferdinand will not allow it.

The glow around Hubert becomes magnetic and pulls Ferdinand a step closer, pries word after word from his lips. “You know, you have come to remind me of the moon in many ways. Trying to keep such a strange distance from your friends, yet still guiding them like the tide.”

Such a flowery sentiment is possibly too much for Hubert, as he attempts to hide behind the short curtain of raven hair that hangs over his right eye, but it manages to wrestle a dry laugh out of him. “You mean to say that all this pondering has led you to compare me to the _moon_?”

Ferdinand laughs too, another sweet, musical laugh. “That is not the _only_ conclusion I’ve drawn, my friend. I’ve come to learn a great deal about myself and my _own_ purpose, in the midst of my curiosity about yours.”

“And what have you found?”

“That it lies somewhere in between that of a leader and a friend,” his vibrant stare is fiery and intense now, a bursting flare of passion and strength that pulls Hubert’s eyes back to him and doesn’t let them go. “I will never lose my noble heart, and I shall continue to seek a future of prosperity for the people. However, I would like to allow myself the selfishness of seeking a happiness that exists beyond the path I walk. I want to fight for what I love— the way you do.”

Hubert is _absolutely_ not breathing now, yet he appears determined to remain as deathly still and visibly unruffled as possible. His voice is decidedly even somehow, though still strained by some invisible weight that he cannot seem to part with. “Figuratively speaking, you have a big heart. A kind one. There is room in it for countless unlucky victims of your love.”

Too many times, Ferdinand has admonished Hubert’s indirect, often blatantly underhanded ways— Edelgard needs their _honesty_ to rule well, after all. Yet, when it comes to his roundabout expressions of kindness, Ferdinand cannot help but be hopelessly endeared— by the way he hides his affections behind dry wit and indifference that ultimately just betray how _shy_ he can be. The innocence of it all warms Ferdinand so fully, and it feels nice— to remember that there are some things that the years have not stolen. It feels nice to just be young, be _human_.

“There are many forms of love, so of course there are many who have earned mine in different ways— and I am glad for all of them. However, I would also like to serve the kind of love that is only meant for one other person.”

“You are infuriatingly personable and have a knack for making a spectacle of yourself wherever you go,” Hubert drawls. “Such incessant charm is bound to steal at least one heart, if not many.”

“Well, it certainly has not stolen yours!” Ferdinand jests, a glimmer of hope tickling his belly.

“I don’t recall saying that.”

The silence that suffocates the room is thick and palpable, and Ferdinand doesn’t have the awareness to breathe it. He worries that if he breathes, blinks, _moves_ , he might miss a second of this sincerity that he needs so desperately. So often does he scorn the darkness that hides Hubert from himself— yet now, he’s thankful for the way it obscures everything except the two of them. He’s thankful for being able to allow the war, the _world_ , to blur for just one moment so that he can only see Hubert’s uneasy smile, even as it starts to disappear when he notices that Ferdinand has been staring at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, for a moment too long.

“Unnerved you, have I? Forgive me,” the edge of dejection in Hubert’s voice pulls Ferdinand out of his reverie, pulls him further into this space that they share.

“No! No, you have not unnerved me at all,” Ferdinand becomes frustrated with how far away he feels and grips both of Hubert’s hands, pulling them to his chest. He is desperate now, to be reassuring, comforting, honest, all of the things that he was meant to be— for what, _whom_ , he loves most. “I mean, I _am_ unnerved, but not in the way you think,” he can be honest now. Hubert has given him the chance— Hubert is always giving to him. “I am simply overcome with joy! I feel as though I am seeing a sky full of stars for the first time.”

Hubert laughs a little, not the dry, exasperated laugh he’s accustomed to, but a _real_ laugh. “So, now you choose to flatter me with _stars_? You were comparing me to the _moon_ a moment ago.”

“It is not flattery! I am just realizing that I have already found such a love that is meant for one other person, and it is reserved for the moon. For you!”

The moon makes Ferdinand bolder and braver than he has ever been, pushes him to smile a smile that is soaked by the sun, and he finds that even Hubert isn’t immune to surprise. His eyes grow wide, as wide as is possible for him, and glint with a childlike wonder that tempts Ferdinand to laugh again. In an instant, they are closed tight when he brings their sealed hands to his lips, a light brush against Ferdinand’s bare knuckles.

It’s a soothing kiss, one that unravels all of the tension and excitement that had clasped Ferdinand’s throat and wound his muscles into knots, and he takes the moment to breathe, an actual _full_ breath, and feel the warmth that he’s not sure Hubert even _knew_ he could give.

“Your love is a precious thing, as infernally bright as you are. However,” Hubert’s jaw tightens— as does his shaking hold on Ferdinand’s hands, still a hair’s breadth from his lips, “I ask that you do not make this, _me_ , your purpose.”

Ferdinand is torn between wanting to retreat, to allow Hubert his hesitance, his accursed self-sacrifice, and wanting to press further— to hold that sublime porcelain face in his hands and insist that they take this one moment to just _be_. Instead, he feels his throat begin to close again when Hubert brings one hand to his cheek and holds it there, a cosmic heat searing through the fabric of his glove and onto Ferdinand’s skin.

“You are indispensable to me— do not think that will ever change. But, the future that Her Majesty dreams of needs men like you to fight for it in order to become a reality. Your purpose must be to fight for the innocent. Leave fighting for _love_ to me.”

Ferdinand sinks. Into his touch, into this spotlight that the moon is shining on them for this final act. Whatever presence of mind he still has goes into his hand closing over Hubert’s, his lips pressing a kiss to Hubert’s palm and speaking words that Hubert needs to hear. “This is not some kind of burden that you need to carry for me,” he forces his eyes open, boring into the face that he is now inching dangerously close to. “You are a _person_ , and that alone is reason enough for me to fight for you. The fact that my heart belongs to you simply makes me fight harder— not just for you, but for _everyone_. Because I know that the future you seek is a just one.”

Love need not only be served on the battlefield, Ferdinand remembers. It is served in the alcove where gifts and praise are exchanged every afternoon. It is served in the library, where countless hours are spent arguing over battalion assignments and inventory and which cheese goes best with each type of wine in the cellar. It is served in the cathedral, where Ferdinand holds Hubert’s face like it’s made of priceless ivory, where Hubert’s hands fall to Ferdinand’s sides and pull him close enough that their noses touch.

Yes, Ferdinand will fight for love, and he will cling to it. He will not give up this warmth to war or to a god. He will not allow Hubert to give it up either, not when he has Ferdinand to remind him that he deserves it. Not when he whispers words that Ferdinand can only hear because he is mere centimeters away.

“May I?” he asks, and Ferdinand does what he always does— charges in with bright eyes and a sparkling smile and no hesitation, leading in the front lines with his lips instead of a lance. He grips Hubert’s hands, trembling on his hips the way his own heart pounds against his ribs, and he pushes closer, feels Hubert’s pulse thundering with his in a synchronized rhythm. It’s such a sweet thing to know— that, for all their differences that he has come to love, their hearts beat the same.

There is so much of the world that Ferdinand cannot comprehend, and with each claim of Hubert’s lips, he finds himself more and more willing to accept that. He need not be able to explain the way their glares have softened into smiles and then blossomed into the waves of heat that he now feels with each kiss. He need not be able to define this glorious thing that he has found. For now, his struggle to constantly learn and improve can wait, at least until tomorrow. 

“You need to rest,” Hubert murmurs. “Dawn will arrive late if you decide to oversleep.”

“It will?”

“Undoubtedly. The sun cannot rise without you,” he steals one last lingering kiss from Ferdinand’s lips, his hands seemingly far less willing to let Ferdinand go as they remain sealed around his waist.

Ferdinand pries his eyes open, wide and gleaming, and hangs his arms over Hubert’s shoulders. His muscles still ache, but with an indescribable itch that thrills him, and it’s confounding to him how one’s touch can be so tempered, yet incendiary. “I do not wish to be the sun, Hubert,” he finally says through labored breaths.

“It seems logical enough to me. The sun sustains life and brings light— just as you do.”

Leave it to Hubert to frame such sentiments with _logic_. Ferdinand might laugh, were he not so tempted to occupy his lips with another kiss. “The sun and the moon are never able to share the sky,” he whispers, a sudden fear gripping his lungs. “Having held you this close, I do not think I could bear such a distance.”

He has dreamed of it before, on nights less sweet than this— standing under a different banner, looking into the sullen, familiar eyes of a stranger. In such dreams, it frightens him how little regret he feels in stilling the heart that he has wanted to win for so long. Righteousness and love existing on opposite sides frightens him, and every time he wakes, he can only strengthen his resolve to ensure a future where they never do. When Hubert kisses him again, and he feels that halo of heat on his mouth and in his chest and on his sides where he is held, he silently vows to himself, to Hubert, to Edelgard, to anyone who might listen— that the future he fights for will not only be just, but _happy_.

“You know,” Hubert mumbles against him before inching away to adore every angle of his face, “there _is_ a time when the moon and the sun share the sky— a _phenomenon_.”

His chuckle is light and melodic, as bright as his pinking cheeks. He leans in to press his forehead to Hubert’s, for the extra touch— but also for an anchor, in case his knees give out. “An eclipse.”

“Mm. For a moment, the earth is perfectly content in darkness, and the moon is able to have the sun’s radiance all to itself.”

Ferdinand’s chest tightens, and the coiling pressure that builds in his stomach might snap him in two, all while he continues to melt into a touch that he suddenly can’t remember living without. It’s an irony that Hubert would find delicious— that for all Ferdinand has felt and endured, _these_ are the sensations that overwhelm him. But Ferdinand can enjoy an irony of his own in knowing that one so selfless as Hubert can be so greedy for sunlight. Although, he’s not sure if he can even call it greedy, as Hubert has _earned_ every last drop of light that Ferdinand has to give. “Just one moment to share seems rather short, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps such a notion is selfish, but we are human, after all.”

“If not one moment, then what would you consider to be an appropriate window of time?” Hubert asks with the formality of a diplomatic conference that Ferdinand enjoys with open amusement.

The question itself, however, cuts a path for him to deliver the unspoken promise that has rumbled within him since this ballet of words began. “I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but for now, perhaps just one night is enough.”

All of Hubert’s pristine, poetic words seem to clatter to his feet as he does nothing but stare, mirroring Ferdinand’s flabbergasted surprise from mere moments ago. Ferdinand likes the symmetry of it and brings a hand to Hubert’s cheek, just to see him lean into it and sigh at the realization of his sincerity. “Hubert?” he asks, after a lengthy silence.

“One night it is, then. For now,” Hubert finally responds with a smile that picks Ferdinand’s last remaining lock and makes him throw himself into a kiss unlike the others— one that overflows and burns with the vow of a closeness that they’ve both longed to share.

Ferdinand tugs himself out of Hubert’s desperate hold and leads him by the hand to the bridge, where the moon shines brighter than ever— in the sky, and on the earth.


	2. breathe in the sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter contains sexual content, so if you are not comfortable continuing, thank you so much for reading this far! and thank you to everyone who encouraged me to extend this work and, in doing so, helped me get my writing spark back! i love you all)

Hubert feels as if, for a moment, he is made of wax— cradling a flame in his arms while he melts into a pool of honey. He recalls one of the few stories from his childhood that he didn’t force from his memory (nostalgia serves no greater purpose to him, or to Edelgard, after all). 

_A young boy dreamed of feeling the sun on his fingertips. His wings, molded from wax, could not endure its radiance, and as they melted— he came crashing back down to the unforgiving earth._

Hubert has avoided heights of any kind ever since he first heard the tale.

Yet here he is, unable to avoid Ferdinand, who has brought the sun’s light down so close that Hubert can feel its fire without leaving the ground. And he does, when he twirls a lock of long silken hair between his fingers and watches the shades of copper and clementine shift in the candle’s light. For every inch of a person to be so vibrant— Hubert finds it _maddening_ , and he _craves_ it.

He craves each glimmer of light that drips from Ferdinand’s fingertips onto his cheek and lingers there even when he pulls away to lock the door to his room. He’s awed by the facets of amber that shine in Ferdinand’s evaluating stare when he turns around and notices that Hubert is irrationally tense and has his gloved fists balled at his sides. There is genuine concern in his eyes, and Hubert finds himself greedy for that too— that unfathomable devotion that could only exist in a heart like Ferdinand’s.

“Are you all right?” he asks, so gently, as if Hubert is made of glass.

“Perfectly so,” Hubert uncurls his fists, drops his shoulders, and forces the sigh that has been choking him since they entered the room. “Why, do I not look all right?”

“Handsome as ever,” before he can tense again, Ferdinand takes his hands and weaves their fingers together— tied into a neat little bow atop all the other ways Hubert wishes to touch and be touched. “You just look a bit… unsettled.”

There _was_ a time when Ferdinand unsettled him, with his eagerness and his optimism and his ability to find so much _good_ in a world that was so cruel. In some ways, it still _is_ unsettling— for Hubert to have earned such sincere affection feels like some kind of euphoric illusion. But the brilliance of Ferdinand’s smile and the heat of his touch are far too real for that to be true. They draw Hubert in like dew to a blooming rose, and whatever remaining courage he has goes into the kiss he pecks onto Ferdinand’s lips and the tightness with which he holds him to his chest. 

“Perhaps _captivated_ is a better word for it, though I won’t deny feeling somewhat overwhelmed, as well.”

Could he be blamed for it? Over half a decade later, Ferdinand _still_ manages to surprise him— with the way he balances compassion with courage, boldness, _ruthlessness_. Ferdinand is fearless, so fervent and passionate in his pursuit of justice that he will stain himself crimson for it— and in that way, Hubert indulges himself in the belief that they are kindred spirits. He understands why this path that he has cut is one that Ferdinand has chosen as well, and he is beginning to understand why Ferdinand wants to walk it by his side.

He takes Hubert’s face in his hands again, so reverently that it’s almost obscene. His eyes are still wide with concern, and his lips, plush and perfectly rosy, are pursed and pensive. “Please know that I do not mean to push you. If you feel any discomfort, I will happily accompany you back to your quarters. You have my word.”

Rather than offense, Hubert finds amusement in the implication that he needs an escort. “You mean to protect a shadow while he lurks about at night?” he teases. “How charitable of you.”

During their time at the Officer’s Academy, students would so often whisper among themselves about a ghastly figure stalking the halls after dark— one who _just_ so happened to follow the same route that Hubert took to the kitchen every night to keep Bernadetta from plundering too many midnight snacks. He never found himself minding it. He knew what he looked like, and keeping such gossip from shifting in Edelgard’s direction was an added benefit. Even so, for Ferdinand to so openly contradict Hubert’s reputation with ornamented declarations about his charm and handsomeness fans a boyish kind of pride, despite his rationale that they are merely hyperbolic (like much of what Ferdinand says).

“Even one so capable as you can never be too prepared, and a true noble never goes back on his word,” Ferdinand declares. “And as one who loves you greatly, I would never wish to pressure you—”

Hubert’s voice is low, husky against the shell of his ear. “I am here because I want to be here... because I want _you_ ,” he moves to brush their noses together, but loosens his press on the small of Ferdinand’s back, tempted to let his hands fall back to his sides completely. “I simply fear that this is a gift I will be unable to reciprocate. Such a thought reviles me.”

He admittedly has more experience bringing pain with his hands than pleasure, and he wonders how Ferdinand can be so adept at both— how his deadliness can coexist with the pure light that he shares with everything he touches. He treasures Ferdinand’s hands, and envies them, so beautiful for all their wounds.

“I cherish the way I feel with you, is that not reciprocation enough? Besides,” Ferdinand leans tantalizingly close, as if Hubert’s lips might disappear if he doesn’t give chase, “all that I give, you have _earned_.”

Hubert is set alight like a match, cutting off his own breath and crushing their lips together in a surge of sparks and flames, giving Ferdinand a dose of his own headstrong bravery. Through the taste of apple and lemongrass that’s left on his tongue, he says, “Then you are free to give, so long as you are willing to receive.”

Ferdinand sighs against him, hums, _laughs_ — with genuine delight, as exquisite as the sweetness on his lips. It sends a shiver from the crown of Hubert’s head all the way to fingertips, already fumbling at the lapels of Ferdinand’s jacket like it’s the first time he’s ever handled buttons. When Ferdinand closes a hand over his and begins to tug at the finger of his glove, whatever calm he had mustered becomes beads of sweat at the nape of his neck.

“These first,” Ferdinand says, more so like a question than a demand. His voice is so musical and gentle— so different from his eyes, aflame with a hunger that Hubert has never seen in them before. Hubert can’t be blamed for getting lost in them or for trying to prove to himself that he isn’t afraid— that he can meet this challenge with a passion of his own. He’s convinced at first, until he remembers that it’s _Ferdinand_ who holds him.

“We cannot all wear our scars with such grace as you. These ones you need not see.”

It’s juvenile, hypocritical even, that he should be concerned with ugliness. He does not regret his marks, nor the deeds he committed to get them, and his appearance has long been nothing more than a means to an end to better protect Edelgard. Still, when he sees Ferdinand, who not only carries his wounds with an elegance that makes them look like purposeful adornments, but who earnestly praises and touches Hubert like he is not completely impure— Hubert cannot help but regret not being able to at least _hide_ how grim his looks are.

Ferdinand deserves some semblance of beauty to match his own, and it almost vexes Hubert _more_ that he doesn’t seem to _care_. He runs a thumb over the white fabric, a heavy, but still passable smile on his lips. “None of our scars are beautiful, Hubert, but they are ours. We do not have the luxury of being ashamed of them, not after what we have done and must still do. But we can accept them, can we not?”

He knows that Ferdinand fights, even off the battlefield, when he makes incensed confessions to the night sky about how powerless he feels at not being able to change the world with his positivity alone— the same positivity that drew Hubert to him in the first place. In hindsight, perhaps he is not fearless after all, but he fights his fears with the brilliance and enthusiasm that are purely his own, and Hubert loves him for it.

Hubert’s fingertips are scarred with a sickly purpling stain that reaches past his knuckles and fades into the pale skin of his palms. One might think he had dipped his hands in wine, were it not for the visibly blackened veins twisting across them. He can’t even remember which assortment of spell aftershocks caused the bruising, let alone the constant pulsing ache, but he’s content with dismissing both so long as his hands still have _use._ He can still feel Ferdinand with them, run them through his hair, press them to the small of his back— the idea of ugliness seems so paltry next to something so glorious.

The blighted skin is thin and papery, like the wings of a bat, yet Ferdinand presses a kiss to each of Hubert’s fingertips like the softness of his lips was meant for them. Medicine and white magic are based on purely scientific concepts, but had Hubert not known that, he’d be tempted to think that the sheer depth of Ferdinand’s warmth could heal. It’s a mawkish thought, no doubt the type of nauseatingly romantic idea that Ferdinand’s mind could concoct. Strangely enough, Hubert finds himself entertaining it for that very reason— and he steals back those warm, romantic kisses with his mouth to _feel_ it.

His hands slip beneath Ferdinand’s jacket, pulling at his smallclothes beneath until they’re messily untucked. Desperation makes him forget the deadly precision that has long made him feel so powerful, and it surprises him how little he minds it. Loving Ferdinand doesn’t require power or lethality. Hubert need not smother the brightest parts of himself in darkness to do it, and it’s terrifying to feel so free. It feels like… 

_Flying._

He doesn’t have the presence of mind to enjoy the poetic irony— not when he’s immersed in feelings so overwhelming, foreign, and somehow completely familiar. Ferdinand is all finesse where he is clumsiness, deftly working at the straps and buckles of his jacket without missing a single beat of the rhythm that their kisses have fallen into. He slides the jacket from Hubert’s shoulders, letting it all pool at his feet like ink before moving to his vest buttons, and drinks in the sight of him with a fondness that makes Hubert shudder. The affection in his voice hushes it into something soft. “Breathe, my moon.”

Hubert’s chest tightens with a pressure that he can’t define. One that begins to release when he rids Ferdinand of his vest and kisses him with unbridled fury— it tightens again when he actually processes that they are dressed down to blouses and breeches, that Ferdinand is in his arms, and that Ferdinand is glowing. He has a freckle at the corner of his lip that appears even during the winter, and Hubert brushes his thumb over it— anxious to memorize every last mark and curve.

He catches himself in a stumble as he backs himself to the edge of the bed and can’t will himself to care, as Ferdinand is being deliberate and careful enough for the both of them. He eases Hubert onto the pillows as if he might shatter under too much force, silently asking over and over again if this is acceptable, if this is what he wants. Hubert yanks him down with him in a tumble of kisses and laughs. He wants Ferdinand to be bold and stupidly confident in his touches the way he is with everything else. He wants to tear away all of that propriety and elegance and enjoy how it feels to be reckless and perfectly human _._

Shining hair hangs over him in curtains, obscuring the rest of the room and anything that isn’t Ferdinand. He weaves his fingers into it at the scalp, exposing Ferdinand’s cheek to a kiss that turns into another on his forehead and another on the freckle at the corner of his lip— with no rhyme or reason other than to enjoy the sensation. He feels a smile forming on Ferdinand’s lips and kisses them again to feel it against him, and to remember that being alive is something to enjoy.

Ferdinand’s lips find his pulse, and Hubert remembers that being alive is also frightening and beautiful and so, _so_ worth it. He lines the sweep of Hubert’s jaw with kisses, each one timed with the pop of a button on his blouse. The brushes of his fingers against the skin beneath are too light, too brief— and the pressure in Hubert’s chest aches, _thunders_ when his arms are eased out of the sleeves and his shirt disappears over the edge of the bed. 

Before Ferdinand can spoil him with more kisses, Hubert moves him off from atop his chest to more easily unbutton his shirt. A raised, white scar on his collarbone peeks from the first button, then another on his chest with the next, then another on his abdomen— all sharp and jagged like the steel and silver that inflicted them. When Hubert smooths the fabric over Ferdinand’s shoulders, he finds more, stark against the perfectly tanned hue of his skin. He lowers Ferdinand back down to kiss the one that chips the junction of his neck, snaking his arms around his back to feel the muscles there shift and move under his hands. 

“I would like to be the one to give, at least for now,” he whispers, catching Hubert’s lips before they can move to a lower, deeper scar. Fire trails from his fingers along Hubert’s sides, lingering at the slight dimple in his hip. A hard press from Ferdinand’s thumb there and a light buff of his teeth on Hubert’s lip is enough to make his mind tangled and foggy. He hardly realizes that he’s pulling Ferdinand closer and arching his back until he feels another nip on his collarbone. He has a matching scar there, on the opposite side and from a thunder spell instead of a rapier. It’s puckered and splotchy, where Ferdinand’s is sharp and linear, and clashes with the ivory of his skin and the golden rose of Ferdinand’s lips. 

He never would have described looking upon Ferdinand as being difficult— every child in Fódlan is told stories of gallant knights and princes whose handsomeness he far exceeds. Yet, that fact makes it even harder for Hubert to keep his eyes open— to see at that face, magnificent and sincere with fanned lashes and flushed cheeks, showering him with kisses from neck to navel. He is too earnest, too warm, too far removed from all that Hubert is and has chosen to be. 

And Hubert forces himself to see. To disregard Ferdinand’s _choice_ to love him through the atrocity and the death that clings to them both— to ignore how much Ferdinand has sacrificed to be the light that illuminates Hubert’s path, would be too great an injustice to bear. Ferdinand is somehow _more_ than the sun. He is morning mist and glowing summer nights and every type of joy in the world that cannot be explained. He is crimson blood and orange fire and all the deadly things that the world needs to survive. 

Hubert feels fire stirring in his belly when Ferdinand’s lips brush over his sternum, dappled with scars from a near-fatal Dark Spikes attack. They follow the toned lines of his hips, over the fine, dark hairs trailing down from his navel, until—

“Wait,” he grips Ferdinand’s hands, firmly latched to his sides, and with those luminescent, sparkling eyes, Ferdinand looks up at him.

“Would you like me to stop?” he asks, and he nearly jumps from the bed before Hubert twines their fingers and pulls him back up into a kiss, languid and shallow.

“Do not mistake me,” he says with a muffled, throaty laugh against Ferdinand’s mouth. “It is merely that,” he takes Ferdinand’s face in his hands, focused on his lips— they are red and beginning to swell, “I have yet to directly express that I love you.”

Ferdinand scoffs, a delicate, noble scoff, and raises a perfectly arched brow. “Does all that you have said and done not constitute a confession of love, Hubert?”

“There are implications, yes, but I believe you are deserving of more than that, especially if you are to share this much of yourself with me. Are you not always going on about saying how one feels openly when needed?”

“Well, yes, but—“ 

“Then I shall be open,” Hubert tucks a stray lock of soft hair behind Ferdinand’s ear and swallows thickly. “All that you are… it allows me to hope as I have never been able to hope before. And while I do not have another life to give, you have reminded me that my _heart_ is my own— to do with what I choose. I choose to give it to you.”

Ferdinand’s breath shallows to silence before releasing all at once in a weighted sigh. A sigh that Hubert feels against his cheek when Ferdinand presses their foreheads together and flutters his eyes closed. “To know that you trust me with something so precious— even now, it is almost unbelievable.”

“You earned my trust long ago, as well as my respect, my gratitude, my _awe_ ,” Hubert feels Ferdinand’s lip give beneath his thumb and smiles something bright— something genuine, “and my love.”

Their smiles melt together, a flood of pure, immeasurable adoration sealed into a kiss— like a wax seal on a letter. Ferdinand draws out Hubert’s lip with his teeth and sinks back down to his middle, fueling the ever growing fire there with the warmth of his tongue and the press of his fingers. “As you have earned mine,” his kisses trail below Hubert’s navel, to the lip of his trousers, “and so much more.”

Ferdinand’s every movement flows like some intricate dance, from pushing waves of hair from his face to removing Hubert’s trousers and bottoms in a single pull. Whatever amber is still visible through his blown pupils sparkles with a love so brilliant, so _true_ , it makes the flame in Hubert’s center roar to every inch of his body. It makes looking away from Ferdinand impossible, even when he presses his lips so tenderly to the inside of Hubert’s thigh— perfectly soft and unscarred, as if preserved for his touch. Hubert’s hands find his hair again and cling, to keep from trembling, and so that he may hear Ferdinand gasp against him.

“I love you,” Ferdinand mumbles in a throaty whisper, and Hubert catches one last glimpse of his sparkling smile before throwing his head back into the pillows and seeing nothing but sunlight when he closes his eyes. 

He feels a ring of fire between his hips, feels gold pouring from Ferdinand’s fingertips into his skin. He feels nonsense tumbling from his own lips, calling Ferdinand his light, his joy, his only— and meaning every syllable. One peek at Ferdinand’s hair flowing over Hubert’s sides, cheeks deliciously red and lips closed around him, and Hubert believes in divinity for one treacherous moment. He savors its existence beyond a god or a prophet— in the idea that Ferdinand’s love can create such a miracle. He can only express as much in repeated _I love you’s_ and staggered gasps as Ferdinand lavishes him, _blesses_ him. He digs his nails into that beautiful crown of red gold, feels his every muscle tighten and throb— and he feels Ferdinand ease him into aching, burning, toe-curling bliss before he unravels all at once.

The room shifts back into focus, and his skin feels tacky against the sheets when he relaxes, his muscles limp like molded putty. Ferdinand reaches into the drawer beside the bed for a cloth to clean himself up, and Hubert doesn’t notice the chill he had left behind until he is flush against him again, warming him from head to toe. He realizes that Ferdinand is still wearing trousers, snaps out of a tempting sleep to roll him on his back— and kisses him fully on the lips. 

Liquid sunset spills over the pillows and frames Ferdinand’s face, in perfect harmony with his scarlet cheeks and gemstone eyes. A thin sweat shines on his skin, and his smile glistens in the candlelight when he pushes back Hubert’s bangs to expose his hidden eye, focused and sharp.

Hubert’s breaths are hot and labored against Ferdinand’s mouth. “Will you have me?” he asks.

“Always.”

He’s decidedly less certain, less deliberate, questioning each movement of his hands and each press of his lips. There is so much of Ferdinand that he wishes to love, and he wishes to do it _right._ Then Ferdinand strokes the planes of his back and rocks against him, and his mind buzzes. He takes the raised white skin of Ferdinand’s scarred collarbone in his teeth and hooks a sturdy paladin’s thigh around his hip. After a moment’s hesitation, he soothes, “Tell me if I am causing you discomfort.”

“Of course. But Hubert, my love,” Ferdinand presses a kiss to his forehead. “I ask that you do not think so much.”

He says it too sweetly for it to be teasing, combing a hand through Hubert’s hair and running a thumb along the sharp contour of his cheekbone. Hubert can’t even find it in himself to argue, to retort that _thinking so much_ is part of his duty— Ferdinand merely wants him to enjoy the present, and he allows himself to want it too. His kisses follow each line of scars on Ferdinand’s chest, lingering on the beating pulse of his heart. Finding the edge of his trousers with his thumbs, he eases them down far enough for Ferdinand to kick them off impatiently and wrap his legs around Hubert’s hips again.

Hubert’s free hand rakes down his muscled thigh, pushing himself harder against Ferdinand’s center and muffling a low groan into his neck. His other hand locks between Ferdinand’s legs, claiming him and tearing gasps of joy from his lips like music. He arches and moans like it’s all part of his dance, elegant and perfectly splendid even at his most vulnerable, and the fire in Hubert’s middle billows. His lips kiss their way down Ferdinand’s stomach and take the place of his hands, now gripping Ferdinand’s to keep him steady. He moves with the quickening rhythm of his heartbeat, feels Ferdinand’s glow and hears him declare his love in ways too beautiful for a letter. 

“Divine… you are _divine_ —“ Ferdinand croaks through hitched breaths, bound by desire and indescribable love. 

Hubert’s fingers draw lines of passion along the golden skin of Ferdinand’s hips, and he is unable to brush the words off as nonsense. Ferdinand is so honest, so open and determined, and Hubert knows what he fears. To turn his back on a higher being that he has long followed without question, all for his vision of justice— it makes Hubert feel vindicated in his decision to place all of his faith in humanity itself. He finds some semblance of comfort in the knowledge that the goddess’s failures have not made Ferdinand jaded or bitter. He takes Ferdinand deeply, tenderly, to reassure him that he does not need piety to be the best man Hubert has ever known— that he is complete and worthy and utterly radiant as he is. Hubert thinks to take him in the cathedral one day, just to show the gods above that Ferdinand’s light is _his_ alone.

Neither god nor man can know the warmth that Hubert now knows, and the thought makes him fervent and eager. His heart threatens to shatter through his ribs as he works, relishing the pressure of Ferdinand’s nails in his hair. Their eyes meet in a brief, intense spark, and Ferdinand blooms for him— a burning mass of momentum releasing into pure euphoria. 

And for once, Hubert is satisfied, watching Ferdinand sleepily melt into the duvet as he cleans up. At his most undone, he still looks like some kind of sublime portrait, as if he’s been sculpted to move with only the most effortless beauty. With a delighted huff, Hubert plops on his back and gathers Ferdinand into his arms, glowing skin and sunkissed hair and all. A light press of Hubert’s lips to his forehead, and Ferdinand snuggles into the dip of his neck like a kitten, tucked perfectly against his side like a key and lock. 

Seconds turn to minutes, and the rise and fall of their chests line up into a steady sync— Hubert thinks Ferdinand might be asleep and is tempted by the opportunity to confess deeper truths to him when he cannot hear. Ferdinand senses the hesitation on his lips, halts the tracing of aimless patterns on his chest to look up and tilt his chin toward him.

“What is it?”

Hubert closes his eyes and sighs heavily, teetering on the edge of shattering such a blissful moment to pieces. “Do you trust me?”

Ferdinand blinks, his irises catching a twinkle from the dimming candle. “Unwaveringly so.”

“Even if I were to keep things from you?” a slight wobble to his voice. He despises it.

“If one were to trust only those that told them _everything,_ they would trust no one,” Ferdinand’s smile catches the light too, like it’s a part of him. “Everyone has secrets, Hubert. I trust you not because you tell me yours, but because you do not keep them against the interests of the innocent.”

The answer would satisfy him, were it not for the aching fear that he has been unable to sate since the first time he saw Edelgard’s hair turned to spun snow. The fear of _loss._ “Say the secrets I kept were for _you—_ to protect _you_. What, then?”

A light, sleepy laugh. A knowing one. “You have a persistently caring heart, and I would not wish that to change. However, should such a decision endanger those we serve, I would be duty bound to guide you against it.”

“Guide me, hm…”

“It is not like you to entertain such hypothetical scenarios with uncertainty, Hubert. Are you unwell?”

Now Hubert laughs, fondly. “Such _drama_. Perhaps I simply wanted to be comforted in the wake of such arduous passion,” he says, thoroughly enjoying the bashful pink hue of Ferdinand’s cheeks as he presses a kiss to one of them.

“You could have simply asked for that to begin with!” he tries to exclaim, but his voice is spent, and he is too relaxed to entertain his usual verve. “I find it difficult to offer comfort when you allude to such things as my distrusting you.”

“Forgive me. I should have been clearer,” Hubert offers, leaning in to pierce Ferdinand’s eyes with his own, haunting and pale like the moon above them. “When this war is over, my fight will continue in places not meant for one so honorable, so _good_ as you. So, I am asking— will you wait for me?”

Ferdinand holds his face firmly, angling it into a kiss burning with resolve. A promise. “I will not. I will continue to improve and work towards my goals, whatever they may be, and I will not remain idle in the midst of a world that needs to be rebuilt,” he smiles through the blaze in his eyes and runs a thumb across Hubert’s lip. “If you are to fight in the dark, then I will do what I must for those in the light. And when the time comes for us to fight together, I will stand by your side.”

Hubert sinks into his hold, wrought with disbelief and contentment and passion all at once. The weight of an uncertain future will exhaust him once again in the morning, and he will continue to ignore the aches in his body and the stains on his skin for the sake of a greater good. However, not even beasts who slither in the dark can deprive him of the present, and he will cling to the hope that no matter how far he must walk on this path, the light at its end will be worth it. He lulls himself into a sleepy daze with one last taste of Ferdinand’s lips, lingering and sweet. “The day we fight the darkness together— I imagine it will be something to behold.”

And as they sleep, the moon watches over them in envy— longing for the day when it may share the sky with the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm how this whole thing was just a really long way of saying "so, yes to head?" (calmly puts phone in pocket and rides off on perfectly intact skateboard)


	3. Chapter 3

(TRIGGER WARNING: PEDOPHILIA, CSA)

hi everyone i'm not rly sure how to properly update everyone who's supported my work, so hopefully enough readers see this! but following the recent news about this platform's inability and adamant refusal to remove/control the spread of child pornography (including content written about real children), i have decided that i'm no longer comfortable publishing my work here or supporting archive of our own in any capacity. i'm so grateful for the people who have read and commented and supported my writing here, which is why i wanted to give readers the opportunity to save or archive my fics for future reading if you wish! i will be saving all of them as sharable google docs myself, and i will also be screenshotting and saving all of the absolutely wonderful comments from you all so that i can cherish them forever. any future writing will be published as shared documents directly on my [carrd](https://molinaro.carrd.co/) which is also linked on my twitter account (@[bubtans](http://twitter.com/bubtans)). i know that this will make it a bit more difficult for people to find my stuff, but it's a welcome sacrifice, and it gives me more comfort than making young people and abuse victims wade through dangerous content.

i can only encourage other writers to follow in this action and choose the safety and well-being of children over what has become an insult to creative liberty. if anyone is able to find or help develop a new, safer platform for original and fan writers to share quality work, please don't hesitate to let me know! lastly, i just want to thank every single person who's ever read or commented on my writing and encouraged me to be truly creative. i haven't posted much on here, but every time i have, i've felt so much love and i'm going to hold onto that no matter where my writing and i go. be safe y'all! i love you so much.

vanisha

carrd: <https://molinaro.carrd.co/>

twitter: @[bubtans](http://twitter.com/bubtans)

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading and please leave me lots of feedback in the comments if u can! an extra big thank u to everyone who left me such sweet words and encouragement and inspired me to extend this work. ur all the brightest stars in my sky!  
> if you have any other questions or comments, feel free to message me on twitter @bubtans! (please read my carrd before sending a follow request)


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